A Nation in Flames

Paris, 1793.

Smoke clung to the streets like a second skin. The bells of Notre-Dame no longer sang for weddings or worship, but for blood—each toll echoing a name dragged to the guillotine. Revolution was no longer a dream of liberty; it was a fever, devouring all who caught it.

Julien Armand tightened the scarf around his neck as he moved through the alleyways of the Marais district, avoiding the wide boulevards where the National Guard marched. He clutched a small book inside his coat—The Rights of Man—forbidden now, though once praised. He hadn’t always been a rebel. Once, he was a lawyer, the son of a merchant. But that was before they took Camille.

Camille had been his older sister. A voice of fire and reason, she had spoken at salons, argued in the streets, written under false names. She believed in the Republic before it existed, and when the Bastille fell, she cheered louder than anyone. But when the Reign of Terror began, Camille refused to stay silent as the ideals of the revolution were betrayed.

One night, she disappeared. The next morning, her name was printed on a list outside the Tribunal—an enemy of the people. She was twenty-nine.

Julien stopped beneath a cracked statue of King Louis, its head long toppled. Across the street stood the prison. Inside, chained to damp stone and rotting straw, was Étienne Vaillancourt, Camille’s fellow speaker and leader of an underground circle. He was the last hope of those who still believed the Revolution could be saved from itself.

Julien had one task: get Étienne out.

He slid into the tavern beside the prison. The back door led to the guard’s quarters. Bribes had been paid, passwords whispered. Tonight was the night.

"You're late," whispered Marcellin, a former guard turned ally. His eyes darted nervously. "You’re sure about this? They’ve started executing sympathizers without trial."

"I'm not here to survive," Julien said. "I’m here to finish what she started."

They moved through the shadows, boots silent on stone. Down narrow stairs, past the moans of the condemned. The smell of sweat and despair grew thicker. Julien's heart pounded like a drumbeat of war.

In the final cell sat Étienne, thinner than the last time Julien had seen him, his beard tangled, his wrists chafed raw. But his eyes—they still burned.

"You’re mad," Étienne said as Marcellin unlocked the door. "You’ll be killed."

"Or free," Julien said. "There’s no difference anymore."

Étienne staggered as they helped him out, but determination replaced weakness. They moved quickly, climbing a service stairwell that led to the old bakery behind the prison, now abandoned. Freedom was ten feet away.

A shout cracked the night like thunder.

They ran.

Marcellin stayed behind, shouting false directions to the guards. The sounds of pursuit faded as Julien and Étienne disappeared into the warren of alleys.

They didn’t stop until they reached the cellar of a safehouse in Montmartre. There, Julien lit a candle and handed Étienne a wrapped packet—papers, maps, and money. A new identity. A way out.

“You’ll go south. There’s a ship in Marseille.”

“And you?” Étienne asked.

“I stay,” Julien said. “The flame still burns here.”

Étienne grasped his hand. “Camille would be proud.”

Julien nodded, emotion catching in his throat. He watched as Étienne disappeared into the night, his shadow long and uncertain.


---

A week passed.

Julien continued his work, distributing pamphlets, helping fugitives escape. But the net was tightening. One night, soldiers kicked in the door of the print shop. He was arrested without charge, thrown into the same cell Étienne had escaped.

On his final morning, a cold wind blew through the bars. A guard entered, holding a list.

“Julien Armand. Come.”

They marched him through the gray dawn. Streets blurred past. Crowds gathered at the Place de la Révolution. Children stood on crates to watch. Mothers clutched their rosaries. The guillotine stood tall, red-stained and indifferent.

He thought of Camille.

He thought of Étienne, of the spark still carried south, perhaps to light a fire elsewhere.

As the blade rose, Julien felt no fear.

Only freedom.


---

Epilogue:

In the years that followed, the Reign of Terror ended. Robespierre fell. The tide of blood receded. And in a small coastal town near Marseille, pamphlets began to appear again—handwritten, passionate, filled with hope.

They bore a familiar signature:

“For Camille. For Julien. For the Revolution that lives.”